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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24970522">as the world comes to an end, I'll be here to hold your hand</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waistcoat35/pseuds/Waistcoat35'>Waistcoat35</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>they slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered [18]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Downton Abbey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>And is a bit shit at staying out of danger, And is a bit shit at that too, But at least they love each other, Implied/Referenced Violence, M/M, Mentions of character injury, Protective Richard, Protective Thomas, Richard nearly gets mugged, Thomas tries to save him, lowkey throwing shade @ jimbo for the robbery scene, theyre both idiots ok, you know which one</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:28:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,174</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24970522</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waistcoat35/pseuds/Waistcoat35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Here, drink this.  You’ll feel better.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>they slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered [18]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772770</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>as the world comes to an end, I'll be here to hold your hand</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>In which Richard won't let Thomas be self-sacrificing because unlike a certain Mr Kent he is not, in March's words, a 'pussy-ass bitch'.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thomas groans as he shifts on the sofa and it rubs against a bruised spot. He's long lost track of what time it is, and only knows that the room is too bright and he just wants to bury his face into the cushions and go to <em>sleep</em>. He exhales, a miserable little huff of air, and shuffles some more as he attempts to make himself more comfortable. There are footsteps coming from somewhere - the kitchen, he thinks. He really can't be bothered to lift his head up to check. The sound from somewhere behind him grows nearer, approaches him, and he only startles a little bit when a careful hand is brought to rest at the back of his neck. A thumb strokes across his nape in apology, and he cracks one eye open and shifts a bit to find Richard kneeling by the sofa, looking worried. </p><p>"I really do wish you hadn't done that, darling," he murmurs. </p><p>Thomas attempts a shrug, and then thinks better of it when the muscles, tensed already in agitation, protest at the motion. "Didn't want you to get hurt." </p><p>This only seems to unsettle Richard further, as he worries at his lip. "And yet, here we are, with both of us hurt instead of just one of us."</p><p>"Might as well be a matching set."</p><p>"Thomas." He can hear the frown in Richard's voice. </p><p>"Well," he says, suddenly defensive even though he doesn't feel like it, "if you're going to be ungrateful. Didn't bloody <em>ask </em>you to stay, did I, I told you to piss off so that you didn't get smacked in the face, it's hardly my bloody fault that you wouldn't piss off, and, therefore, got smacked in the face." He's already wound tighter again, reprimanding himself for the outburst and yet feeling strangely glad for having let it out. He winches his limbs in so that he's smaller than before, averts his gaze stubbornly. </p><p>"Thomas," he hears, softer this time, and it's irritating in its gentleness, because all it does is emphasise the harshness of his own words. "I never said I wasn't grateful - although, I admit, I may've acted like it. I'm sorry if that's how it felt. It's just - I don't like that you felt you had to do that, to put yourself in harm's way for my sake."</p><p>"I didn't <em>have to. </em>I wanted to, because I didn't want you getting hurt, because there were three of them and one of you and it wasn't fucking fair." He's still frustrated, but not with Richard, with - he doesn't even <em>know </em>who. Himself, probably. </p><p>There's a dip in the sofa, which probably means Richard's leaning up on his knees and propping an elbow on the seat to reach him. A hand curls around the point of his right elbow, soothing, a finger stroking up and down the soft inside of the joint, soothing. "I don't want you doing that, though. You getting hurt for me. <em>Because </em>of me." There's something low and truly worried in Richard's voice, and - oh. <em>That's </em>what it's about, after all, Thomas thinks.</p><p>He shifts around again until he can face Richard, but he doesn't move too much, wants to keep the hand at his elbow. "Rich. That wasn't <em>your fault</em>."</p><p>"But I was-"</p><p>"It wasn't." His voice is firm enough that Richard doesn't argue with it again. Richard's inched nearer now, as if he needs to be as close as he can to Thomas, to watch and wait and worry. "You didn't mean to run into a bunch of blokes looking to <em>mug </em>someone. Or, at least, I hope you didn't. And it wasn't your fault that I'd come after you to see what was taking you so long when the shop's not ten minutes down the road. I did that because I was <em>worried </em>about you, Christ, Richard." Richard looks nothing short of miserable nevertheless, eyes darting to the other end of the sofa, so Thomas leans over - ignoring the ache as he does - and presses their heads together, awkward, cheek to cheek, temple to temple. </p><p>"S'not right, though," Richard says, doleful and almost childlike. "<em>You</em> came to help <em>me</em> and you still ended up worse off than me."</p><p>"Again, there were three of them - you had your hands full with one and the other two managed to catch me off guard." Then he chuckles, thinking of something. "I'm far better off than I would've been if you hadn't learnt to box in your youth, that's for certain."<br/><br/></p><p>"<em>Thomas!"</em></p><p>"My knight in shining - um - boxing gloves, I s'pose." <br/><br/></p><p>"Thomas," and there it is, Richard's laughing along now, little high-pitched chuckles that tremble in his chest, like a canary warbling in its cage. It's a lovely little noise, and it leaves them both breathless for their own respective reasons. After a while, he calms down, and looks serious again. "But really. Don't put yourself in harm's way for me."</p><p>"You would've done it," Thomas counters, and the amount of certainty with which he can say it makes something warm blossom in his chest. </p><p>"I would," Richard concedes, with just as much certainty, if not more. Thomas softens.</p><p>"You really would, wouldn't you," he murmurs, a breathy thing, and leans their foreheads together. Richard leans into the contact, before carefully winding his arms around Thomas, mindful of the bruises, and letting him hook his chin over Richard's shoulder. Thomas feels strangely tearful at that, and at the notion that things might've gone differently - that Richard might not have come back. Or, at least, not in one piece. "Was worried 'bout you," he murmurs against his shoulder.</p><p>"I know," comes the soft reply. </p><p>"Waited nearly half an hour, and you didn't come - I-"</p><p>"I know," Richard breathes. "All I could think about was how worried you'd be, if they'd hurt me - if they'd left me there. I was close to just giving them the money if they wanted it so badly."</p><p>Thomas brings one of his own arms around Richard, tight. "I wouldn't have let them leave you there. I'd have come looking. Even if it wasn't as soon as I did - I would've come to see if you were alright."</p><p>"Lucky you did, isn't it. My brave Thomas."</p><p>He shakes his head. "Not that brave. I'm a bit shit at things like that."</p><p>Richard pulls back, looks at him intensely. "That's what <em>makes </em>you brave. You were going to try and fight them off, three against one, and tell me to run. You daft, brave sod." Thomas huffs, tries and fails to prevent the small smile curling upward. Richard untangles a little bit, then, and picks up a cup of chamomile he must've set on the side table by the sofa. He presses it into Thomas' hand. "Drink this. You'll feel better."</p><p>Thomas rolls his eyes, but does as he's told. "You rather foiled my plan," he says in between sips. "I was trying to protect you." </p><p>"But," Richard says, "you forget that <em>I'm </em>there to protect <em>you</em>, too." </p>
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